


No Control

by MoreThanSlightly (cadignan)



Series: Transitive [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadignan/pseuds/MoreThanSlightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have a harness and a strap-on and you,” she lets go of his dick for a moment to lay her hand on his backside and squeeze, “have a damn fine ass.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Control

After dinner, Natasha sits on the couch and turns on the TV. She doesn’t sit with her legs folded up next to her, like she prefers to, but with her thighs straight in front of her and her feet touching the floor. She crosses her legs at the ankles, but leaves her lap open.

She does this more often than not, now, and Bucky has come to recognize it as an invitation. He’s quick to curl up next to her, laying his head in her lap.

She laughs. “I had a cat just like you, once.”

“Smart animals, cats,” he says. They have the right idea about life: sleeping, eating, and accepting affection from a select few people.

“He was prissy and spoiled rotten,” Natasha tells him, and even when he has his head in her lap and his eyes closed, he knows she is smiling. She strokes the fingers of her left hand through his hair and drapes her right hand over the curve of his belly. He’s a little softer there now, after months of living here and cooking with Sam. His hipbones aren’t sharp any more, and his abs are no longer brutally defined. His t-shirts stretch a little tighter there than they used to, but it doesn’t bother him. He is just as strong and agile as he was before, but he’s not somebody else’s weapon now. He owns his body, and he gets to decide how it looks. He’s been happy here these past few months. The weight is proof.

He feels good about himself, and that should be all that matters. But Natasha—Natasha matters too. And she touches him every chance she gets, curving her hand around his middle. It made him flush at first, when he thought she was teasing him. But she’s not teasing him. She rests her hand there because she likes the feel of it. He can’t blame her, since all his favorite parts of her body are soft. That realization makes him flush in a different way.

Sex is easy with Steve, but so far he’s been a little gunshy with Natasha and Sam. Some kissing, some watching, and a whole lot of touching. He likes it. He wants more. But it’s easy to let go with Steve in a way that it isn’t with Natasha and Sam. And the three of them have each other, so it’s not like they’re in desperate need.

Bucky’s eyelids drift down as Natasha’s fingers pull gently through his hair. Her other hand moves, too, from his side down around the curve of his tummy, the pads of her fingers following the narrow strip of exposed skin between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants. Her touch feels so nice, and he’s so sleepy, that it takes him a moment to notice her fingers lingering around the trail of hair beneath his navel.

Even as the rest of him is still half-asleep, his dick perks right up.

She runs the pad of her index finger just under his waistband, back and forth over the same few inches, toying with him. He shivers.

“Keep going or stop?” she says.

“Dumb question,” he murmurs against her thigh. He doesn’t have to look at his own lap to know how big and obvious his hard-on is.

“Humor me and answer it anyway.”

Natasha is obsessed with making him ask for things out loud, ever since the night a few months ago when he got into her bed without asking. He still feels bad about that, even though she has told him that she forgives him. So he understands the point of the questions, even if they make him feel like a foreigner who doesn’t speak the language and needs everything explained in small words and big gestures.

Maybe that’s the problem. He likes talking to Steve in bed. He speaks that language just fine.

“Keep going,” he says to Natasha. And then, because it’s more like what he would say to Steve, he adds, “I like that, it feels good.”

“Yeah?” she says, and he can hear her smiling again. “Good.” She slides her hand down, and he feels just a hint of the blunt ends of her fingernails scratching gently through his hair, and then her hand encircles the base of his dick. He groans with pleasure, and the sound is muffled against her thighs. Natasha keeps petting his hair, too, because this might actually be heaven.

Then he hears her preparing to speak again and hopes she’s not about to ask if he wants to keep going, because he’s made that pretty goddamn clear, but instead she says, “You want it right here, with my hand, on the couch?”

“Mmm,” he says, because he’s too happy to make sentences or decisions.

“Or do you wanna go to my room and let me peg you?”

“Mm… what?”

“Steve said you like topping and bottoming,” Natasha continues, very matter-of-fact. “I have a harness and a strap-on and you,” she lets go of his dick for a moment to lay her hand on his backside and squeeze, “have a damn fine ass.”

“You wanna,” he starts, feeling a little dazed by the proposition. He had imagined that his first time with Natasha would be a little more traditional, but then again, maybe that’s why they haven’t had a first time yet. He’s afraid of losing control, of hurting her. It doesn’t make any sense—she might be an un-enhanced human, and smaller than him, but he’s seen her fight—but feelings don’t have to make sense.

But maybe this is the solution. Natasha is offering to take charge. She’ll fuck him instead of the other way around. She’ll bend him over and put a hand in his hair and—fuck, yes, he wants that. He can do that. He can hold still and let Natasha take him apart.

“Steve kisses and tells, huh?” he says, realizing that he’s been silent for a moment.

She rewards him with a soft laugh. “I pressed,” she admits.

“With your dick in his ass?”

“I haven’t done this to him yet,” she says. “Or Sam. But I know how, and I thought we could try it. But only if you want to.”

Natasha has a strap-on in her room and she’s been saving it for him. That’s filthy, but also… sweet? Either way, she’s not even touching his cock any more and he still feels pre-come blurt out the tip.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want to.”

“Good,” she says, sounding pleased and proud. “You want an audience?”

Steve and Sam are in the kitchen washing up. He can hear them talking and laughing over the sound of water running and dishes clinking. Natasha is proposing to invite them to watch, and he has to think about that for a moment. It’s hot, the thought of the two of them keeping their eyes on him while Natasha fucks him, but it might also be too much.

“Maybe next time,” he says.

He feels her body shift as she nods. “Alright,” she says. “Just you and me, then. They can entertain themselves.” She pats his ass. “Up. Go to my room and get naked.”

She makes it sound like he’ll be there by himself, waiting naked on her bed, and just the thought of that much anticipation makes his dick ache. But instead she goes with him, following him and practically steering him the short distance from the living room couch to her bed. He almost protests that he’s not that far gone yet, to need directions around the apartment where he’s been living for months, but he can’t complain about Natasha touching him.

He drops his t-shirt and sweatpants on the floor as soon as he gets close to her bed, and then Natasha is right there, standing in front of him and pressing a bottle of lube into his hands. He looks down at the bottle, and then at the curve of her smile and the brilliant red top of her head. She’s so much smaller than him. But she’s fully clothed and he’s naked and it’s amazing what that does to him. He wants to kneel in front of her and let her do anything she wants. He’s a grown damn man, dangerous and highly trained, and all she has to do is look at him and he’s blushing and thinking about blurting _I’ll be good_.

They live in a world with aliens and robots and super serum and cosmic cubes, and nobody is as powerful as Natasha Romanoff.

She smiles at him and runs a hand down his side, idly brushing the pad of her thumb over his nipple. “Get yourself ready?” she says, tilting her head down to indicate the lube she just put in his hand.

He nods. He’d rather have her do it, open him up nice and slow, but this is almost as good. He spreads his legs and slicks up his fingers and works them inside himself, and across the room, Natasha undresses.

It’s not as flashy or elaborate as a strip club number, but he recognizes a show when he’s offered one. Natasha is a little messy, most of the time, dropping her clothes on the floor or tossing things in the general direction of the laundry basket. But tonight she’s slow and careful, folding her oversized blue sweater and leaving it on top of the dresser, then peeling her jeans down her thighs and folding them up too. She has dainty little white polka dots on her red panties, which is the kind of detail that no one would believe about Natasha without seeing it. She slips out of her t-shirt, and then unhooks her bra—turquoise with purple straps, clashing wildly with her panties—without turning around. He almost whimpers at being deprived of the sight of her breasts bouncing free. Instead, he pushes another finger inside himself.

He knows what this little show is all about. Natasha has self-control in abundance, and all the time in the world, and she’s going to be exactly that slow and careful with him, if he can hold on long enough to wait for her.

Natasha pulls off her panties, and God, nothing could look better than her ass. Then she pulls on the harness, and he corrects himself. The curve of her ass framed by the black leather straps of the harness, that’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

She turns around, holding her hand around the base of the dildo. It’s dark red and slightly curved. It doesn’t look much like a dick, but it looks good on her, jutting out from the harness. He drinks in the rest of her, her thick thighs and the pink points of her nipples and an expression that says she’d like to take him apart, and nearly loses it right there. Christ. She’s not even touching him.

“You ready?” she says, and all he can do is nod.

She arranges him how she wants him—bent over the side of the bed with his legs spread, bracing himself on his elbows. She runs a hand down his back in approval, then grabs his ass and pushes inside. He’s ready, nice and open and slicked up, but he’s also not ready. That first push inside him is so tight, so good it makes him groan. Natasha’s cock is not as long or as thick as Steve’s, but it doesn’t matter. It’s long and thick enough. And it’s Natasha.

“You like that?” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he gasps, too intent on the feeling for any kind of sarcasm. She thrusts again, and he repeats himself. She has her hands on his hips, pulling him toward her, making him take the full force of every thrust. Just like he thought she would, Natasha fucks him slow and deep. It would be merciless, except she keeps bending over to kiss his naked back and whisper to him.

“You look so good like this,” she says. “You take it so well.”

That’s merciless, too, in its own way. He leans forward and presses his face into the mattress, mutters, “Please, Natasha.”

“Please what?” she says, and he’s not sure if she switched to Russian or if he did. Did they start this conversation in English? He can’t remember. “You’re so beautiful, Yasha,” she says, and her hands are running up and down his sides, and then her right hand slides under him to palm the soft curve of his middle. “I like this part of you,” she says, and he can’t press his face any further into the mattress or blush any more and God all he wants is to be fucked, why won’t she move, Natasha please, _fuck me fuck me fuck me_ , “Shh,” she says, and her left hand is on his hip, groping the curve of his ass and then running down his thigh. “I like this part of you, too,” she says, and then her left hand runs all the way up his side to the scars around his shoulder where his prosthetic starts. “And this,” she says, running her hand over his metal arm and then back to his shoulder. She touches the back of his neck, pushes her fingers into his hair and curves her hand over the back of his head. “And this.”

“Fuck me,” he says, and with one hand gripping his head and the other splayed over his hip, two fingers pressing lightly into his pudge, she finally does. He nearly sobs in relief, but it’s still so slow and deep, and he’s so fucking close it aches. A few fast hard strokes and it would be over. He wouldn’t even need to touch himself. But Natasha keeps him waiting at the edge.

“You’re so good,” she says. “So patient.”

He chokes out a laugh at that. He feels anything but patient.

“Yes,” she insists. “And I’m gonna make it good for you, because you’ve been so good and you deserve it so much. But you have to ask for it.”

That’s no trouble at all. “Please, Natasha,” he says. “Let me come.”

She moves her right hand, the one on his hip, sliding it underneath him and toward his straining cock. She’s just about to touch him there, so close to wrapping her hand around the base that he can almost feel it, when he says, “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t need that,” he says. “Just fuck me.”

“Yasha,” she says, her voice suffused with pleasure. She leans over and kisses his back between his shoulder blades. Then her hips snap forward and she thrusts into him hard and fast until he shouts her name and spills all over the bed.

She’s petting his hair, leaning over and dropping kisses on his back, and she pulls out slowly. He’s dazed, leaning heavily into the bed, then he realizes something.

“You didn’t,” he says, lifting his head and looking at her over his shoulder.

She smiles and shrugs. “It was for you.”

He wobbles a little as he stands up, but this is important. “Fuck that,” he says. He faces her and rests his hands on her hips, looking down into her eyes. Her pupils are large and dark. Her cheeks and lips are flushed. “Can I,” he starts, pushing the harness down her hips. She nods, helping him, stepping out of the straps when it falls to the floor.

She has such a cute little bush, her dark hair neatly trimmed and very obviously wet. He touches her waist, spins the two of them around so that she has her back to the bed, then sits her down and spreads her legs. He’d been imagining kneeling in front of her earlier, but the real thing is so much better. Her cunt is dark pink and beautiful. If he hadn’t come two minutes ago, he’d be hard again already.

“I used to like to do this,” he tells her, and then presses his face between her thighs. She’s sweet, and so wet, and it turns out seven decades of brainwashing wasn’t enough to make him forget how to eat pussy, because she puts her hand in his hair and tugs his head closer, even though his tongue is already inside her.

“Oh my God,” she says in English, and she’s already so close. She must have loved fucking him as much as he loved getting fucked. “Fuck, James, yes,” and he has never liked his given name except in her mouth, but right then he thinks he could learn to love it. Then her hand is clenching in his hair and she’s shuddering around him. She nearly squeezes his head between her legs, before she remembers and catches herself, but he just leans one cheek against the soft inside of her thigh and smiles up at her.

“God, you’re phenomenal at that,” she says.

He grins. “I know.”

She rolls her eyes and flops backward onto the bed, then lifts her legs and brings them onto the mattress too. She’s all lazy grace and he never wants to stop looking at her or touching her, and he follows her onto the bed without a second thought. He fits himself against her, the curve of her ass nestled into him, and reaches around and cups one of her breasts. He kisses the side of her neck and then lays his head on the pillow, his nose pressed into her silky hair.

“I could fall asleep right here,” he murmurs.

“I’m not stopping you,” she says.

“Natasha?”

“Mm?”

“Your cat was spoiled rotten because you spoiled him,” he says.

“He deserved it,” she says, yawning. Bucky smiles into her hair and then impulsively, he purrs against her ear. Natasha’s soft laughter is the last sound he hears before falling asleep.


End file.
